


This Body Is Yours And Mine

by HandsAcrossTheSea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Bunker Era, Double Penetration, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Love, Sex Toys, Top Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 19:50:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandsAcrossTheSea/pseuds/HandsAcrossTheSea
Summary: Even alone, Sam and Dean are always with each other. Codependent, irreversibly so.





	This Body Is Yours And Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I feel compelled to apologize for this story's existence. A year, nearly, away from Sam and Dean and this is the best I could come up with. I...yeah. I'm disappointed too. I wish I could say that I had a better idea, something deeper and more... just more. With how hard the last Wincest series I wrote tanked, I can say that my expectations for this one aren't high, and I'm being plainly honest about that. If you enjoy it, I'm glad - but I expect far more people to not.
> 
> That being said, I kind of took the concept of "erotic codependence" and ran with it, because I wanted to see how they impacted each other even in the privacy of their own sex lives. Do I think I succeeded? No. Did I try? Yeah. I kinda wish I knew what my writing was doing, but it can apparently rocket off in the direction of 18k plus words of hot dumpster fire.

“Stop. Fidgeting.”

Sam is  _ not  _ fidgeting. He’s not.

But today it’s like his normal spot in the Impala has completely lost any of the comfortable groove in it, and there’s a whole hell of a lot of  _ not  _ comfortable there.

He’s simply trying to get it back, and then he’ll stop “fidgeting.” Sam doesn’t fidget, he adjusts, shifts - but he doesn’t fidget. Nervous people fidget, and Sam has nothing to be nervous about. Not right now at least.

“‘M not.”

Dean huffs a sigh, and mumbles something under his breath. He plucks at the front of his shirt, revealing a flash of skin at his neck that, for some reason, Sam fixates on. Okay, so maybe that’s partly why he’s  _ adjusting  _ so much. He’s horny, and it’s Dean’s fault. At least that’s part of it. Maybe all of it.

It’s not anything specific that Dean did, or has done. It’s more just his  _ existence,  _ Sam thinks. It’s their sex life, kind of. Not that it’s in bad shape, nor is it that they don’t have access to each other. They do, all the time. Last night had been, God,  _ good.  _ One of those rare nights where nothing had hurt to stop them, Dean’s back hadn’t let the team down, and Sam’s knees (because he has to be careful of them nowadays) had cooperated the entire time. That’s half the victory right there, and then the position they used? Even better, with Dean on his side, his leg hiked up to let Sam get as deep as fucking possible, with both of them coming so hard that he’s pretty sure that they might have died for a couple of seconds after. 

No, it’s not  _ their  _ sex life.

It’s his.

Sam’s.

Which, even after all of this time, is still separate from Dean’s. An unspoken thing, at least it feels as such. Coming from the last round of crap, Sam’s felt the need to just… be with himself. To reconnect with his own body and make sure that everything works, that he can still trust it to do what he needs to. As a concept, he’s pretty sure that he can. It’s not a matter of not being able to get hard, have an orgasm, give Dean what he needs - not at all. But that’s as much about Dean as it is himself, and that mutual bliss, while important, it’s not the same as when it’s just him.

It’s like turning thirty six (how the hell he got that far) was his wake up call to start checking in with himself every now and then. After all the Mark of Cain business, the Amara business, and well,  _ a whole lot of fucking other shit,  _ Dean had bent over backwards to go out of his way to let Sam know he’s good, one hundred percent, that he’s as Dean as Dean can be, and that means sex. Lots of it, because Dean has strange methods of letting Sam know he’s good. Sam’s thankful for the orgasms, he really is, but there are other means to prove it.

Dean hasn’t left Sam with much time on his own, and Sam honest to God feels guilty about it. Like he would be rejecting Dean or something. They’ve both lost far too much over the years to do that to each other, and it had taken them long enough to finally get it somewhat close to right. It’s never going to be a completely healthy, functioning relationship, not in the traditional sense, but what they have works. Dean is still Dean and Sam, last he checked, is still himself. Shoving that into a neatly defined, “you pick up the eggs and I’ll have the roast done when you’re home” box hasn’t exactly happened.

Even though Dean does make a pretty good roast.

Sam sighs and slumps down in his seat, spreading his legs wide as he leans his head back. “Are we there yet?” Shit, this position sucks too, and it’s not but a second before he’s off on another round of “find the most comfortable way to sit.”

“Dude,  _ hold fucking still _ .” Dean’s looking over at him now, frowning. “You need a piss or something?”

“No, Dean, I don’t.” Sam returns his frown, glancing at the dash clock - they’ve been on the road for five hours, and Sam’s been thinking about nothing but touching himself the whole time. A long fucking day to spend circling his mind about jerking off. 

How would Dean feel about him doing it right here, just in the passenger seat? Hell, they’re comfortable with plenty of other things about each other. They’ve masturbated together before, now and then, but… that hadn’t been really a true “you stroke how you like, I’ll stroke how you like” experience, just a substitute for sex when they’d both been too tired or hurt to do it properly. 

“Hungry?” Dean’s tone is gentler now, and Sam knows he’s just trying to look out for him. It’s sweet, in Dean’s own way. “There’s one of those Cook Out places coming up.”

At least it would give him the chance to stretch his legs and maybe allow him to sit comfortably. “Yeah, a little bit. That’s the place with all the milkshakes, right?”

“Think so. Peanut butter fudge is the best one, if it is.” Dean’s eyes are already lighting up over the promise of sugar and carbs, and okay, Sam can get behind that. At least if he isn’t hungry he might doze off, and then his whole wanting to touch himself thing will be something for awake Sam to deal with.

“Oreo, Dean - that one’s better.” Sam doesn’t remember if he actually had the Oreo one the last time they stopped at one of these, but it’s enough to get a rise out of Dean. They still have fifteen miles to go before they actually reach the restaurant, but they ultimately manage to agree that the best one is the fresh watermelon flavor they have in the summer.

They really haven’t been in the South since last summer, if that’s the case - it’s the last time Sam can recall having one. Something they don’t get a lot of in Kansas, that’s for sure.

Sam is feeling a little looser by the time they stop, and Dean keeps looking at him with a keen interest, less a  _ hey, let’s fuck  _ sort of way and more  _ I’m glad you’re mine, baby boy.  _ Sam captures it, tucks it down inside himself for later. He likes it when Dean looks at him like this, making parts of him feel even more alive than his own awareness can comprehend. He wants to be reckless, do things that should get them in trouble with someone - but it’s also Alabama, and Sam knows better than to let impulse get them arrested. Not that kissing in public  _ should  _ get them in trouble, but Sam isn’t going to argue with some bigoted Tuscaloosa resident, not today.

He wants to kiss Dean anyway, savor it, and then come back to it later. God, even when he’s fucking jerking off, he’s so wired to Dean that his body is the first thing that he goes to. At least he has in the past, anyway.

So what if his older brother was his true sexual awakening? It’s not like he can’t variate on that for his own private time, right?

It’s not weird anymore to steal glances of his brother, the way his sleeve tugs at his bicep, muscled hard and strong, or the splay-legged easiness with which Dean commands the Impala, an open invitation if Sam wants it. The way he keeps licking his lips between his sentences, talking about how much he likes the spicy chicken at Cook Out,  _ c’mon, Sam, get out of the car, I’m hungry. _

So much for his privacy of mind. Huh. Not that it’s all that private anymore, with the various angels and God knows what else that have gone through it so often. There has to be a spell to keep that sort of thing out, only Sam hasn’t yet found one strong enough. 

It isn’t summertime, so there are no watermelon milkshakes, but Dean does offer plenty of opinions on Sam’s choice, about how it just isn’t the right one - but ends up drinking his own and half of Sam’s anyway. They shoot the shit, laugh at made-up observations as they people watch, and sit way too close to each other to be just brothers. Sam is aware of Dean in a particularly strong way today, and just the touch of Dean’s foot against his own while they eat leaning against the hood of the Impala is enough to make his cock throb. 

Dean notices his erection, because of course he is. He always knows when Sam is the slightest bit horny, swearing that he can smell it on him. Sam tries twice to adjust, only managing to call more attention to himself. He wants it to go away, but also doesn’t, because he knows why it’s this way today.

He just doesn’t want Dean to be the one to take care of it.

“Still have about sixty miles to go, Sam - sure you don’t wanna take a piss before we head off?”

If Sam is given the chance to touch himself, he’s going to do bad, bad things to that toilet stall. Never mind that Dean wrung his prostate dry last night, it never seems to matter much; there’s always a lot. And he isn’t going to want to stop, either. One orgasm when he’s like this isn’t enough, and Sam is not going to be arrested for jerking it in a Cook Out. Or anywhere.

It is awfully kind of Dean to give him the chance anyway.

“I’ll… I’m fine. Seriously, just one of those days, Dean.” 

Dean nods, gathering up their trash, and Sam gets in the car, grinding his heel against the head of his cock. He’s pointed right, always is, and he feels dry as tinder. He closes his eyes and thinks about how he can still taste milkshake, the cold sweetness of it still setting his neurons off in sugar-high explosions. Dean comes back, slides over into Sam’s space, and grabs his head, pulling him in for a kiss that still contains the salt of fries and a pure, liquid lust that makes Sam’s guts turn to lava. Warning bells fire off in his head, that this shouldn’t be done here, but Dean chooses that exact moment to slip his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Every siren blaring in his mind gets deafeningly quiet, and Sam moans  _ way  _ too much, considering that it’s just a kiss.

Like it’s ever been  _ just  _ a kiss between them.

It’s over as quickly as it began, but Sam’s just been given a hard jumpstart in a way that he can’t ever quite manage himself. He still wants to finish this by himself, yes - but Dean gave him the kick to push him down the hill.

“Now stop fidgeting - seriously.”

Dean starts the car, and Sam’s dick throbs with the gunning of the engine.

___

 

Birmingham is the home of their case, and it’s not even so much a case as just carelessness. Honest to God, a witch had died during a spell and her cat - yes, her cat - had managed to eat some of whatever it was she had been working on. It had left the city with a spattering of what basically amounted to the entire stray population being hopped up on cat speed, more or less, and the chaos had been just because of a hive mind that told them to… run out in the road all at once. Congregate in the hundreds, and being cats, be even weirder than normal.

Sam doesn’t hate cats, but even Dean had to admit it had been funny watching Sam chant to reverse the spell while he rounded them up with pieces of butcher scraps, standing in the ruins of an old apartment building that the cats had claimed as their home. 

They hadn’t come out of it any worse than smelling -  _ reeking -  _ of a multitude of cats in one place, and Sam is honest to God sorry that Dean has to smell him right now. It’s enough to take the edge off of his annoyingly distracting arousal, and no, there’s no fucking way he’s ever going to get the smell out of this shirt and pants. He doesn’t even want it to touch his other clothes, lest they smell like cat piss as well.

So maybe he  _ does  _ hate cats a little.

Dean checks them into their hotel, and Sam stays far away enough from the other people in the lobby so he doesn’t get the smell on them, either. He sticks around long enough to listen for the room number, and takes the stairs up to the third floor. They’re actually staying in a Holiday Inn, for once, with a continental breakfast and sheets that don’t have odd stains in them.

It’s a one king, too, and that’s fine. They have a king in the room they share at home, the nights that they want to sleep together.

Sam strips the second Dean gets the door open, shoving his nasty clothes into a plastic bag. Dean watches as more and more skin is revealed, and Sam doesn’t see him staring until he stops muttering to himself.

“Is there a garbage chute down the hall?” God, he needs to get away from these, and the sooner the better.

“Think so - but you might want to put some pants on first. Anaconda sightings being a scary thing for people, and all that.” Dean palms himself, and Sam covers his boxer-clad dick with his left hand - like that’s going to do anything to deter Dean.

“I smell like cat piss Dean, now isn’t the time.” 

Dean chuckles, because it’s fucking  _ funny  _ to him, but he’s careful to give Sam a wide berth as he pulls on a pair of running shorts and sticks his key card in the pocket. “Yeah it is.”

“Fuck off, Dean.” Sam considers dumping the contents over his head, but that would just result in a lot of bitching that he doesn’t need to hear right now. He needs a shower, time to himself (Dean’s comment about his “anaconda” had brought his arousal roaring back, goddammit) and for Dean to just… not. Or do, he doesn’t know. He needs Dean as a concept right now more than a living, breathing thing, but only temporarily - he absolutely, one hundred percent wants the warm presence of Dean with him later that night.

He heads down the hallway, the cool air surrounding his body and making his nipples harden, his skin tight and overheated. He’s aware of his hip piercings, strongly enough that accidentally brushing his forearm against the right one as he stuffs the bag down the garbage chute makes him moan loudly enough that he can’t believe it actually came out of his mouth.

The running shorts don’t do much to conceal his arousal, and by the time he gets back to the room, he’s already got his right hand in his waistband. Dean doesn’t say a word when Sam leans against the door and shoves the last of his clothes to the ground, working himself in long, even strokes that feel like  _ heaven. _

“Hell of a show, Sammy.” Dean gets up from the bed where he was lacing up his “nice” boots, pausing to check himself in the mirror over the bureau. “You want some help with that before I duck out?”

Sam opens his eyes, hand paused on his cock. “Where you goin’?” Sam doesn’t intend to follow, but just in case something comes up, he’d at least like an idea of where to find his brother.

“Just out. Might find a beer and a game of snooker. Don’t wait up for me, alright?” Dean does reach for Sam, and gives him several tugs because he’s a good brother, drawing Sam into a kiss that’s way too good for someone who still stinks like hell, licking the precome from his index finger where he circled under the inside of Sam’s foreskin.

“Use protection at least?” The occasional physical infidelity doesn’t really bother Sam, but he absolutely isn’t going to catch gonorrhea if he can avoid it. Bareback is reserved for them, and them alone.

Dean gets a glint in his eye, and really, why does that go straight to Sam’s already stupidly hard cock?

“Not that kinda night, Sam - ‘s not as fun without you anyway.” Another kiss, and Dean leaves, letting Sam be alone with his body, and all the dirty fantasies that he’s been trying to give shape to all day. 

Sam looks down at himself, watching his hand travel the length of his long, thick cock,  _ like a horse, Sammy, swear to God,  _ and it’s fucking wonderful, letting every goddamn thing go from his mind but the single-minded selfishness of getting himself off. He stands there for a long moment, holding the base of his dick with his left hand while his right pulls at the head, rubbing those places where his foreskin normally covers. He moans again, without shame, and so very badly wants to crawl over to the bed and lie down.

Dean would kill him if he had to lay down on cat piss sheets, and Sam couldn’t blame him for doing so. He stalks to the bathroom, and without taking his hand off of his dick (like he’s afraid it’ll fall off) turns the shower on, dials it up to steaming, and steps under the spray. He’s almost too tall to fit under it, but he manages, kudos to Dean for already laying out his soap. He lathers up and scrubs, coming back every couple of seconds to soap up his cock. His erection doesn’t flag, and when he bends over to give his crack a good wash, it just gets harder, and Sam wishes like hell he had something to shove in there tonight.

He does a cursory job of drying himself, hangs the towel back up and gives his damp hair a couple of good floofs (he is never,  _ ever  _ going to say that word in front of Dean) and makes himself comfortable on the right side of the bed, the same spot as when he’s home. He’s looking forward to the  _ after  _ he finds, when Dean will come back and Sam will be sated in a way that he can only give himself. They’ll curl around each other, settled into each other’s bodies like they were crafted specifically for that purpose. Two halves of a single warrior, soul, whatever  - it’s going to be good.

The duffel he’d set down on the bed earlier is still there, Dean’s sitting on the floor to his right. Sam doesn’t have a single toy with him except a cock ring, and that’s only because he’d just so happened to be wearing it the day they left Kansas. He digs through his bag, thinking about his toy chest back home, and really, he didn’t even grab his Fleshlight? Yeah, always prepared, that’s Sam. 

In order to get the ring on, Sam’s going to have to go soft first; it’s supposed to go around shaft and balls, but its metal composition doesn’t really allow it to bend. God, he’s got a difficult enough time getting the damn thing on when he’s soft, and it just frustrates him  _ more.  _

Sam finds himself caught between two difficult spots - either he goes without the ring, comes, and then slips it on for a second round - or he finds some way to kill his boner and just wind up even hornier once he gets it back up. He can feel his heartbeat in his dick, straining up towards the ceiling where he’s holding himself, fingers messing with his frenum piercing, not at all making the decision any easier for himself. 

Greediness to see his cock fatten up even further wins out, and Sam takes his hand away, letting his head fall back against the pillow so that he can’t look down at his naked body. The ring has warmed up where he’s holding it in his left hand, passing it over and through his fingers. It’s not the thickest one in his collection, just a skinny, solid band that he mostly wears for when he just wants a little extra presentation; even with as big as he already is, he still likes the pump of confidence. That and freeballing in sweats in the bunker, just to watch Dean get flustered and needy, all without Sam laying a finger on him.

Shit, he’s supposed to be getting himself soft, not teasing his brother. He’s not even here right now to  _ be  _ teased.

Sam lays aside his lust-addled thoughts and switches his upstairs brain back on, giving himself a couple of minutes to slow his breathing and backtrack to their last couple of weeks, hunting and kicking ass, as close to normal as they’ll ever get. They fought, a couple of times, over the stupid shit they do to keep the other out of the line of fire, enough that Sam was sure they were going to swing at each other. It’s a pretty even match these days, but when that happens, when they tear into each other, it hurts more. Takes longer to recover.

He realizes it’s been a long time since Dean’s hit him, and it absolutely shouldn’t be an indicator of how things are going between them, but it is what it is. They still hurt, and get hurt, for each other, and always will - but they have gotten better about using words rather than fists.

Sam lets out his sigh, his cock finally soft enough for him to put the ring on, tugging one ball and then the other through it, squeezing his shaft in through the top and making sure it’s plenty snug before he starts to get himself hard again. Now he’s even more turned on, letting that build-up and delay take root and spread through his body. It doesn’t take long for him to be back at full mast, agog at his own size. 

Rather than tease, Sam wraps his fingers around his shaft and gives in, dialing up his own sensations to maximum. He picks his phone up from the nightstand and takes pictures for Dean, the only documentation of his time alone that he’s willing to share. They don’t send them often - why bother when the real thing is, most of the time, just a couple of feet away - but he feels like showing off, and the lighting isn’t completely terrible, and his hips studs look pretty damn eye catching tonight.

He doesn’t expect Dean to reply to them, and he really doesn’t want him to. Dean will see them, and what he chooses to do with him is entirely up to him. Just knowing that Dean has photos of his massive fucking cock on his phone is enough, and Sam grins, self-satisfied, watching the precome seep from his slit and down his glans. He spreads it around, smearing and shining himself, using long, greedy strokes of his hand to make his veins pop even more.

His process stays slow, want shooting through his veins in jolts. Sam slides up so that his back is against the headboard, able to watch himself, his vision half-focused, looping his favorite spanklist, most of which is some variation of Dean. Dean stretching and letting his shirt ride up, the little hitch in his step after Sam’s fucked him, the greedy way he drinks shots, his mouth pure fucking porn and wicked promise, the helpless way he reaches for Sam when he’s ragdolled him, Sam’s cock still buried in his ass and promising him everything. The things that are good, when they’re good, and it’s not really any one specific thing - it’s Dean’s happiness, and the easy, poorly disguised affection he never spares Sam. Dean wants it as badly as Sam, that warm, right-in-the-pocket feeling of each other.

Sam takes his left hand and tugs at his balls, wishing like hell for his stretcher right now. He’s due a proper milking from himself, and he’ll have one. It’s all too easy to drift lower after a while, right hand still going on his cock, brushing his hole with shatter-breathed anticipation. He doesn’t let Dean back there. Before Hell, he was allowed. Sam wanted it that way some nights, to be split open and ruined on Dean’s thick cock, and it was some of the best he ever had. 

That changed, because of course it did, and the only time Sam is ever touched back there is when he does it himself. It’s a trust he’s built to himself, and even then he seldom uses his own fingers. He has plugs, massagers, dildos - they let him have the pleasure and the reassurance that it’s not a living being doing it to him. Sam gets total control, his prostate wrung dry, and a sense that he’s put himself back together as much as he can.

For a moment, he stills his hand on his cock and traces his hole, left leg raised so that he has optimal access to himself. Dean’s super sensitive here, loving every fucking second that Sam spends eating him out, teasing him, holding his legs back for anything Sam wants to give him. All that cock of the walk, badass hardcore attitude goes out the window when Sam gets his mouth between his legs, guaranteed one of about two things - begging or demanding, and either way, it’s always for more.

Sam is working up the nerve still to ask Dean for that, but until he can be sure, he’s going to do just this, teasing and fucking himself, letting the electric sparks fly up his spine so that pleasure tingles at the base of his skull. He wants to slide a finger in, just enough to light him up from the inside out - but he hasn’t bothered to grab the lube, and he really doesn’t want to fucking move.

By the same time, there are enough ghosts of memories to let Sam know that  _ anything  _ going in dry back there, hurts. The last thing he needs right now - alone, too - is an episode where he goes down the rabbit hole, especially one that he can avoid.

Grumbling, he gets up and looks for the lube, which of course, isn’t in his bag. It’s in Dean’s, in the front side pocket with his third back up lighter and reading glasses (which Sam pretends to not notice, for the sake of everyone) and it’s mostly gone, the lube, but it’s enough for his purposes tonight.

Once he’s settled back down and coated his fingers, he manages to slide one finger in without much resistance, and it feels good, going all the way up to the knuckle. He strokes his cock and fucks himself all at the same time, relaxing and tensing at once, the same sensation dovetailing depending on what one hand is doing as the other begins the action. Two fingers, and Sam’s moaning, begging, voice ragged and deep, chasing the high that he can only get like this. His cock is pouring precome, hopped up on his own desire, foaming white at the flared base of his head, foreskin traveling only far enough to cover him halfway. 

He slams his favorite image into the next slide, and it’s Dean on top of him, riding Sam slow and dirty, both of them pulled so tightly together that there’s barely a glimmer of daylight between them. It’s the only time that Sam even imagines giving up his carefully rationed control, letting Dean use him to take his pleasure, with Sam tied to the bed and unable to do a damn thing but let Dean milk his cock with his ass. Sam shudders, jamming his fingers in deep and curling hard against his prosate, fuck, it’s too fucking much, another touch, another thrust up into his own hand and Sam comes, hard enough that he shouts and very likely disturbs whomever is on the other side of the wall, launching great white, thick ropes of come all over his chest and stomach. He’s always had heavy, loud releases, the kind that Dean has told him “would look really fuckin’ good on camera, you fuckin’ porn star” and Sam feels some of it dripping from his chin, apparently having nailed himself somewhere in the midst of all that.

His orgasm stops, fading away with loud thuds of his heart and his body spasming around his fingers, still lodged deep inside himself. Everything recedes to slush, followed by a rush of clarity that Sam recognizes as part peace, part icy loneliness. The Dean in his mind disappears, and Sam is left with his cock softening in his hand and come dripping onto his thigh, no second round necessary this time.

“Fuck,” Sam mutters, taking his fingers out of his now tender ass, his breath finally slowing and the hot rush of pleasure turning to sleepiness. He’s covered in drying come, tacking in his chest and belly hair. This is the part where Dean licks some of it up and kisses Sam like it’s manna, the nasty motherfucker. Sam secretly loves it, that Dean is so eager to share the tastes of each other’s bodies. 

Two halves, a single soul. At the end of the day, there’s not much difference in them. Dean comes different, sure, but the taste is the same. 

He gets up, tugging his cock ring off and milking out the last few drops as he heads to the bathroom, turning the shower back on and washing himself with care, his movements lazy and heavy. He’s hungry again, wanting nothing else but to curl up and bask in his own glory, the edges of his nerves softened and muzzy. 

Twenty minutes later, he’s dressed in his softest clean flannel and shorts, eating in embarrassingly large mouthfuls a carton of chicken and rice, feeling extraordinarily pleased with himself. There’s a  _ Cheers  _ marathon on the t.v., and Sam can work with that.

The irony that he always liked Lilith isn’t lost on him, but there’s no need to share that little secret with  _ everyone. _

___

 

The image of Sam surrounded by a bunch of grouchy, witch-cracked out cats is something that is never, ever not going to be funny. Dean’s been chuckling the whole time he’s been driving around Birmingham, feeling  _ giddy.  _ Because it’s funny, really, and Sam hadn’t actually gotten up the nerve to kick one of them away from him. That’s Sammy, too damned considerate for his own good.

Reconciling that with the horny, touch-greedy version of him that Dean left in the hotel room is tough, because both are super fucking powerful visions. Dean’s never seen him so zeroed in on his own cock, not even when Dean is doing God’s work on his knees, gulping down his monster schlong like he needs it to breath. Well, not breathe, in his case. Whatever.

He’s just really, really shit at asking for time alone, and always has been. Growing up in hotel rooms, feet away from each other, Sam’s always been a little weird about jerking off. Dean gets it. A man’s time with himself is important, but Sam can never manage to utter the words  _ hey Dean, get lost, I’ve got shit to take care of.  _ He just gets moody and twitchy, which to be fair he does a lot, but it’s got an edge to it, and even if Dean makes fun of him for it, he understands. Sam  _ needs  _ privacy for it. Dean doesn’t call it a requirement, but for Sam, it’s about knowing he can enjoy himself without shame.

After all the shit that Sam’s been through, the least thing that Dean to give him is some time alone with his own body, and not be weird about it. It was a testament to how badly Sam needed it when he just started jerking off in plain view of Dean, and it hadn’t been in the least for his benefit. Dean hadn’t actually been planning on going to get a beer or play pool, just down to the lobby for some ice - but Sam hadn’t need to know that. 

But seeing Sam all keyed up like that, well, don’t let it be said Dean isn’t sympathetic. He can guarantee that Sam won’t be irritable when he comes back, and things will be fine. Sometimes there’s an itch that you have to scratch yourself.

Dean’s been half-hard since he got in the car, driving aimlessly, slow, looking around Alabama’s capital. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other between his legs, brushing the occasional thumb over his bulge, wondering if it’s worth doing the same thing for himself. His ass still hurts from last night, yeah, but that’s never stopped him. Dean has always owned up to being a bottom - at least for Sam. Sam’s dick is fucking magic, probably too fucking big to be taking regularly, but the pleasure is so far beyond worth it that Dean can’t stop. He got big somewhere between the end of eighth grade and junior year, and it’s been a really fucking perverted, wild fascination of his since then. Sue him. Sam turned him into a size queen (no, he isn’t ever going to assign those to words to himself in front of Sam) and that’s that, he’s a slut for his brother’s nine inch cock.

Yes, Dean measured.

Sam hadn’t wanted to, didn’t want to give Dean  _ something else  _ to be smug about. It’s not like it’s attached to him, after all. Dean’s kind of glad he isn’t, because if it was, he’d never get a damn thing done. How the hell Sam  _ doesn’t  _ fill his free time with nothing but touching himself is a secret, convoluted fantasy that Dean tries not to indulge in too often.

Right now it’s all he can think about, and that Sam just… exists with that. Next to him in the passenger seat, when he’s reading or researching, hunting, yep, nothing changes the fact that Sam has a big dick, and if he’s not going to be a cocky shit about (ha) then Dean will. He’s not even jealous of Sam’s size, not really. Dean has never had a complaint, and Sam is so much in his own league that it’s not even a contest between them. It can’t be.

In fairness, Dean had measured at the same time, so Sam wasn’t alone. Six and a half, with a hefty girth that makes him look bigger than he is. That’s what counts anyway. Fucking Sam has both, because of course he does. 

No, Dean’s not mad, or jealous, because he’s the primary caretaker. Lock stock and barrel.

He wanted to stay and watch. He’s seen Sam pleasure himself, but not in the way that Sam does it when he’s all alone. Sam’s an animal with him, and it’s not a show, at all, the way he handles Dean in bed. That’s as much a part of Sam as liking salads and being too smart. But he’s curious, dying to know what Sam does behind the closed door of his room back home. 

It’s not an idle curiosity, and Dean better stop before he starts coming up with elaborate ways to find out. So many boundaries get blurred between them, and Dean  _ has  _ to leave this one solid. For better or worse, he’s not going to know. 

Every town has a red light district, and it’s not long before Dean finds Birmingham’s. There are strip clubs, porn shops, the works - but Dean isn’t interested in boobs in his face, not tonight. He parks the car in front of the cleanest-looking adult bookstore he sees, adjusts himself so that it’s not so obvious he’s walking around with a steadily hardening boner, and goes in.

This is his place.

Dean is among his own kind here, the porn hounds, the perverts, the needy and horny. Those who require visual stimulation, to openly and unashamedly see naked, sexy bodies. Dean is barely spared a glance as he walks in, a riot of glossy covers and photos letting his eyes feast. Sam has never been one for porn, far more content to use his own imagination, it seems. It’s not because there’s anything wrong - that’s just how Sam is wired. 

Dean’s been tugging his dick to Playboy since he was thirteen, and found an issue stuffed into the mattress of one of the motels they stayed in. Christ, how many loads had he streaked across those pages, carrying and hiding it until he was about fifteen and the pages had gotten so messed up that there was precious little hope of ever pulling them apart again. It had been a sad day when Dean had had to toss it, leaving him wanting more.

Nothing beats a skin mag, not really. The stuff on the internet is great, and Dean is thankful for the high bandwidth that Sam managed to route to the bunker, letting Dean watch as much as he wants. But a magazine, where you have to stop and focus on every image, every hot story, Dean’s addicted to it. Loves turning the pages with his left hand, right wrapped around his dick, throbbing with surprise as the new picture unfolds. 

There’s a trunk in one of the storage rooms down in the bunker that holds all of the issues Dean has collected over the last few years, his private smut stash, with a bottle of lube and one of Sam’s old t-shirts. The lube isn’t necessary, really, but even being uncut, Dean likes some extra grease. Sam likes coconut oil, fine, but nothing has ever come close to giving Dean the slick-happy feel of arousal as Astroglide does. 

Dean wanders the isles, the latest issue of  _ Playboy _ and  _ Playgirl _ already tucked under his arm.  _ Hustler, Asian Fever, Penthouse  _ are all added in short order, and once he’s got his fill of titty mags, wanders over to the other side. Muscled, gleaming men bid him to pick them up from their stands, posed and hard on their covers. Dean picks up four issues, bypassing their titles, getting more and more turned on by the second. He has to stop himself before he gets too greedy, or he’ll probably end up with duplicates. No need for that.

It’s a test of willpower to not stand in line and start reading, so he pulls out his phone to check and make sure Sam’s going alright. There are four messages from Sam - but none of them are indicative of emergency. In fact, Sam hasn’t said anything at all, just sent him photos of his leaking, engorged cock, veins popping and head purpled.

The guy in line behind him must see Dean’s screen, a soft, awed  _ holy shit  _ breathed down the back of Dean’s neck. Dean shoves his phone back in his pocket, embarrassed (no one was supposed to see those but him) and hurries up to the checkout, hands shaking as he jams his credit card into the reader. He doesn’t look up at the cashier, signs his receipt and beats it out of the store, his stash tucked safely in a dark-colored bag under his arm.

There’s a drug store up the road and Dean needs to stop there, too, the last of his glove compartment lube gone. He waits for his heart to stop beating so loudly and gets out, the soft, neutral lighting inside a complete change from the sleazy, darkened interior of the bookstore. Dean goes right for the condoms, picking out the biggest bottle of lube he can get, goes over an aisle and swipes some piercing cleaning solution (Sam said they were getting low a few days ago) and pays for that too, still embarrassed but calmer now, left with nothing but to find that perfect spot and take care of himself.

So not what he was originally planning to do tonight, but Sam’s got him feeling inspired.

Every town has that spot, secluded and perfect, where someone can take what they need in plain but hidden view. Dean doesn’t have to spend all that long waiting for it, finding a multi-level car park that at this late hour, is completely empty. He drives up to the third level and parks in a darkened corner, waiting five minutes before he unbuckles, savoring the quiet. Birmingham hums around him, but here, surrounded by the muffling concrete, all he’s really aware of is the pounding of his own blood in his veins.

Dean sprawls himself out over the front seat, raising his hips to shove his jeans and boxer briefs down. The leather is warm from his body heat, and Dean sinks gratefully into it, head leaning back against the window as he gives himself that first, welcome tug.

It isn’t long before he’s lifted his shirts, too, spending about twenty seconds with them rucked up under his chin before he sheds them, tossing them down between his booted feet. He runs his left hand over his body, tugging at the barbells in his nipples before he moves south, down below his balls to his guiche piercing, a hotspot that he doesn’t hesitate to focus on. Sam’s tongue spends a lot of time there, lighting him up like the Fourth of July - little shit gets crazy when Dean rides his face, his paws clamped on Dean’s hips so that he can hold him in place and lick him stupid.

Thinking about it makes touching himself all the more urgent, and Dean pauses just long enough to fish his first magazine out of the bag and open up the lube, pouring it over his straining cock and leaning back again. The pages beckon to be opened, and Dean’s eyes drink up the sight of pink, soft-haired pussy, held open and exposed,  _ it’s okay Dean, look all you want,  _ and Dean’s stroking so fucking good already, mesmerized as he turns the pages.

Twenty minutes, and he’s savored enough of this rag that he’s assured he can pick it back up later and get the same enjoyment out of it, getting the next one and giving it the same attention. This one is all guys, a cover feature with one of his favorite porn stars (so maybe Dean follows them a little religiously) and even reads the interview, drinking up the nasty stuff he does off camera.  __ Dean pays attention very carefully to the section where he lists what he likes in a guy -  _ broad shoulders, big dick, and a cute smile. _

Right fucking on, man, and immediately his brain serves up images of Sam, posed in the same open, confident way that this guy is, presenting his cock and muscles for open observation. 

Precome soaks his shaft and hand, slicking loudly as it mixes with the lube he re-supplies. He goes through his magazines slowly, bombarded and overloaded with skin and beckoning looks, slotted with memories of Sam’s big dick, shiny and wet with Dean’s saliva, because in his mind Sam had wanted to abuse Dean’s mouth and throat and he’d let him, God, he’d let him, servicing himself at Dean’s expense. 

He’s going to do that for him, soon, maybe when they’re home. Take Sam so deep in his throat that he’ll be tasting him for weeks. It’s not a hardship, not emotionally anyway, because he actively enjoys making Sam come. Part of it is just sheer need for Sam to feel good, and Dean’s willing to give him that. Smugness is the other half, the knowledge that he  _ can  _ handle Sam, and handle him well. 

Dean ends up with his other hand down underneath himself, circling his hole with lube and shoving a finger inside, the magazine open on the steering wheel. He’s stopped at the centerfold, the girl in the middle of it bearing the same multi-colored eyes as Sam. 

He finds his prostate, swollen up enough that it actually feels firm to his touch. He doesn’t ride it, letting his hand on his shaft give himself most of the good stuff - this is just to help it get to his veins a little faster. Faster he strokes, arching his hips and letting Sam take over, his cock knocking every one of his senses off line save for his ability to feel, to take and allow Sam to burn him down all over again. Time after time, Sam does it, fucks and overwhelms and completes him, even here by himself, his breath hot against Dean’s neck, vulnerable to no one but each other.

Dean comes with a shout, nailing the window behind him once before he coats himself, dripping down his body and into his navel. He’ll get around to load tagging his magazines later, and he will, dizzy with his porn-addled vision and fantasy Sam. Those two things are linked, inextricably, but Dean’s not mad about it - it’s the best of both worlds, as far as he’s concerned.

He licks the come that’s spilled over his hand, reaching for the rag he uses to wipe the windshield to clean himself up. He’s not much into eating it on his own, but he has every intention of kissing Sam with the taste of come in his mouth, when he gets back.

Once he’s got his porn secured and his jeans pulled back up, Dean starts the car and drives back to the motel, the hour late and the city pretty much dead around him. He puts his t-shirt on before he gets out of the car and tucks his porn under his jacket, walking through the lobby to the elevator with the sweet-sticky scent of Astroglide and come clinging to his skin.

The sound of Cliff Clavin’s voice is the first thing he hears when he walks through the door of their room, spouting off unnecessary information in Frasier’s direction. Dean rounds the corner and sees Sam lying with the covers drawn up to his waist, the remnants of a chuckle curling his lips into an easy smile.

“Hey,” Sam says, turning sleepy eyes on Dean. “How was your beer.”

“Didn’t suck.” Dean kicks off his boots and sits down on the end of the bed, stashing away his purchases in his bag. “‘S that Chinese I smell?”

“Your beef is in the fridge, and no, no vegetables. Just meat.” Sam stretches and sits up, watching Dean as he bends down and gets the carton out of the mini fridge. “You stink, by the way.”

Dean comes to lie by Sam, opting for the plastic fork instead of chopsticks. “That’s musk, Sammy.”

“You smell like come.” Sam leans in and takes another whiff, because of course he does. “Gross.”

“Hey, at least it’s mine.” Dean shovels beef into his mouth, groaning with relief. He hadn’t realized just how much of an appetite he’d worked up, and kudos to Sam for thinking ahead on this one. “You ain’t the only one who needs alone time, you know.”

Sam laughs, elbowing Dean gently. “At least I wasn’t in public.” He gets up and goes to their cooler, brought in by Dean before he’d left. Dean watches his shoulders as he uncaps a beer, the way his boxer briefs cling to his legs and ass. He turns around, and even soft, Sam is fucking impressive, the material thin enough that even in the low light, Dean can make out the fine details of his brother’s dick.

“Yeah well… I didn’t want to intrude or anything. There another one of those in there?”

Sam hands him the opened one and gets another for himself, popping it open and sitting down on the bed again. “Still don’t want to have to bail you out for indecent exposure again.”

“That happened  _ once,  _ Sam. Once.”

Sam laughs, more richly this time, and Dean finishes his beef with relish. Sam ends up lying down again, on his side facing Dean, soft and tired, beautiful as ever.

Once he’s gotten rid of the carton and finished his beer, Dean leans down and kisses Sam - so much for kissing him with his come still in his mouth. Given the hazy way Sam’s half-sleeping right now, maybe it wouldn’t have been the right move. “Gonna shower, Sleeping Beauty.”

Sam nods, hugs Dean’s middle with one arm, and tucks into the pillow.

Dean indulges in a long shower that leaves the ends of his fingers wrinkled, washing off their case and long day of travel with his soap and Sam's peach scented shampoo. Alright, yes, he likes how soft it leaves his hair, yes he's still going to give Sam crap about it - even if it is one of the longest clung-to things that Sam does so far as self-care is concerned.

          And maybe Dean likes even more how Sam buries his nose in the top of his head as he falls asleep because he needs to know that his big brother is there. There's the other constant.

           He hears Sam come in to take one last piss and brush his teeth, yawning after he rinses. Dean is right there with him, getting more and more indolent in his movements. There’s enough energy left to get himself dried, teeth brushed, and out of the bathroom, not bothering to put anything else back on. Sam’s already got the covers turned down for him, the tv still on but the volume lowered. Dean climbs in, not having it in him to protest when Sam pulls them tight together, enveloping him with his body and arms.

Sam isn’t quite so muscled as he used to be, all whipchord, ropey strength, but he can still fit Dean’s body to his, point for point. Sam’s naked too, Dean finds, and that just makes him tuck down harder into his embrace. There have been plenty of variations of this position, with both of them in different stages of shape; lanky, puppy-fat newly shedded Sam, bulking, blood-addicted, biceps that could crush an apple, newly re-souled, almost bodybuilder huge, and these last few years, leaner, hardened, but still strong as steel - Dean has loved each of them. Times existed where he thought he didn’t, but he does, always has, always will.

He loves Sam.

Which is why tonight, he doesn’t grumble about being held, Sam letting out a satisfied little huff into his damp hair.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Mmm?” Dean is getting there, sleep taking him over in inevitable, darkening stages.

“Thank you.”

Dean reaches for Sam’s hand and squeezes it, right over his heart. “You never have to be uncomfortable asking for that kind of time. I understand its importance.”

Sam nods, nothing left to be said, and soon he’s out. Dean keeps himself awake for a while longer, listening to the slow, even breaths that mean Sam is truly down.

The television screen is barely dark before Dean follows, and they both dream of blissful nothingness.

 

___

 

Ice has formed in the entryway to the bunker.

Outside, it’s expected, but just inside the door, the metal flooring is covered in it, and Sam’s got the eggs and beer in his hands, the last bags of groceries to come in. That’s all they have to do, put them away, and then he’s free, both of them, to just take a beat and enjoy the next couple of days. Sam isn’t going to look for a hunt, not with a late winter blizzard rolling through the state right now.

Carefully, he starts down the steps, one at a time, like he’s going about disarming a bomb. He can hear Dean in the kitchen, already working on putting stuff away. He calls out to Sam,  _ hey, Sammy, you got the beer  _ and Sam yells back that he’s coming, heart doing funny things at the fact that this is all he has to worry about right now, making sure he doesn’t drop the booze because the bottom of his boots might be icy.

He gets everything to the kitchen without incident, setting the bags down on the counter and removing his snow-covered jacket. “Gonna be stuck in for a few days,” Dean says, moving around Sam as he puts things away. “Got any plans?”

Sam finds the bag that he had put his jars of coconut oil in, two of them, and yeah, he does. “Nothing that will involve me going beyond the library.” He’s already turned on, has been ever since he dropped the oil in their shopping cart and Dean had given him this smug look, probably thinking about whatever it is that even Sam hasn’t formed a concrete plan for yet - just that it’s a thing that’s going to happen, and Sam is okay with not knowing how.

Dean hums, still looking for groceries to shove in this or that particular cabinet. “Cool.” Sam finishes his share of putting things away, then puts the coffee on. It’s still early in the day, and Sam could use a second cup. Dean watches him, brushing his hand over the small of Sam’s back as he puts a new pack of filters down next to him.

“We can strip weapons and all that tomorrow, if you want to uh… you know. Take some more alone time.” An inquiry, assessing the urgency of the situation that he  _ thinks  _ Sam is in. “Which is okay if you do, just saying.”

Sam shrugs, turning away once the coffee is starting to drip in the bottom of the pot. “I’m not gonna spend every waking minute in my room jacking it, Dean. It was nice a couple of days ago, but… I’m okay if you want to put business before pleasure.” If anything, making himself wait is better, letting his body want it more. 

Dean exhales, nodding, looking at Sam, all the way up and down, like there’s suddenly some sort of barrier between them. “What if,” Dean starts, closing his mouth, opening it again, furrowing his brows, and so far, having not managed to get anything worthwhile out. “What if we did that, got ourselves off, but… got each other started.”

So maybe they’re kind of bad about asking for things like that of each other, relying on non-verbal communication and telepathy, apparently, to figure this shit out. It took them a long, long time to learn each other’s kinks, mostly because they suck at telling each other. It’s better than it used to be, and honestly, on the list of things that  _ could  _ be asked for, this one isn’t exactly going to break the hard limits meter.

“So like foreplay, but we go and masturbate away from each other, but we know the other is doing it.” Sam didn’t have to put it into words like that, but it’s fun to watch Dean’s eyes go wide at his desires being verbalized. As kinky and nasty as Dean Winchester is, he has trouble working up the nerve to tell Sam  _ hey, baby boy, can you give me a little push to get the engine going? _

They might be a little fucked in the head, yeah, but it would be comical if Dean wasn’t trying so hard to not make a big deal out of it.

“Right first time.” Dean draws himself up to full height, fingers curling at his sides. Sam takes a step closer, aware of Dean’s body heat like a blast furnace. He’s not cold anymore, working on assessing on exactly how Dean wants to be kicked off at that moment. Things have been easy going and quiet between them the last few days, and Sam thinks it might be time to change that up.

Is he looking forward to some quality time with himself? God, yes. 

Does he still want Dean, body and soul? Yes, and yes again. 

Sam pulls him by his belt loops, eyes held in Dean’s, close enough that he sees his reflection in them. Dean’s need is plain on his face, a silent plea for Sam to just  _ give  _ it to him; it doesn’t come as a hard contact, no biting claim that’s all urgency and no finesse. Just a good, firm kiss that makes Sam’s chest swoop because it’s a happy medium, somewhere between time-slowing seduction and  _ I need you right fucking now.  _

Dean draws himself up into Sam, face cupped by his hands, still a little icy from outside. They warm up fast, moving from Sam’s face to his neck, settling in his hair. Sam leans into it, puts his thigh between Dean’s and backs them against the counter, licking and sucking Dean’s tongue, taking all the time he needs. Dean hums with a contentment that tells Sam he found exactly what Dean wanted. 

His cock is filled, and Dean relinquishes his hold on Sam’s hair to reach down and grip him, hard as iron across his right thigh, trapped in snow-dampened denim that’s still cold to the touch. Sam pushes into Dean’s palm, tongue going deeper into Dean’s mouth. Sam brings a hand up from Dean’s waist and finds his nipple, bypassing his outer shirt to the thin fabric of his tee, rolling and pinching the right one in a way that’s guaranteed to get Dean dripping wet.

“That’s pretty fucking perfect, baby boy.” Dean’s breathing is coming heavier now, and he’s hard too, grinding against Sam’s thigh, seeking friction that Sam isn’t quite giving. “Wanna see you.” He mouths for a kiss, and Sam gives it to him, guiding Dean’s other hand to his belt buckle. 

Sam doesn’t bother looking down as he works his belt and jeans undone, letting Dean touch and grope to his heart’s content. The air is a mix of cool and fire-warm, gasping when Dean’s fingertips wrap around his shaft and pull, steady as he goes, a moan pouring from Sam’s mouth unto Dean’s. 

“I think about you a lot when I do this, Dean.” Sam may as well come clean, toes curling in his boots when Dean finds his piercing. “All I’ve ever needed to make myself come is you.”

“I know, Sammy.” It’s not self-centered, the way he says it. Just acknowledgement that they’re so erotically entangled that it would be all the more strange if they didn’t come into each other’s minds that way, and God knows how many firsts and lasts they’ve been for each other. How many experiences they shared and found they loved, and how many they tried and then swore never again. Dean keeps stroking, kissing him, Sam’s hands now under his rucked-up t-shirt, messing with Dean’s tits until Dean finally has to push him away, too much stimulation for it to just stop here.

Sam stands with his hands back on Dean’s hips, both of them breathing each other’s air like it’s all that they can find, his dick hard and dripping between them. Christ, it’s always,  _ always  _ so much precome when Dean turns him on like this, and Sam is a little embarrassed by the long string that’s about to connect him to the floor, slit to concrete. “How’s that for a start?”

Dean laughs, taking another kiss,  _ melting  _ into it, his lips soft as silk. Sam doesn’t really want them to end, ever. 

“Think it might take more than one at this point.” Dean lets him go, palming himself through his jeans, drinking Sam in with his eyes all over again. “Find each other later?”

Sam nods, tucking his dick in the waistband of his underwear and zipping himself up just enough to keep his pants from falling down on the way to his room. “Count on it.”

Dean pours them each a mug of coffee (even in the midst of intense arousal, Sam isn’t passing it up) and they part, Sam all the more turned on because not only is he back home in his comfort zone, with his bed and his toys but this is a  _ Dean  _ thing, a fantasy that he knows will make Dean come hard. They won’t see or hear each other, and that’s fine, really, one hundred percent fine, because Sam’s still got the taste of Dean in his mouth, the ghost of his touch lingering on his skin.

His room is warmed sufficiently that once he’s inside he doesn’t hesitate to strip down, leaving himself in just his underwear. His cock is still heavy with blood, leaving precome stains on the material wherever he adjusts it. He puts his oil down on the bed and goes to the ancient steamer trunk he keeps his toys in, undisturbed, just as he left them before.

He can’t possibly use all of them at once, and he doesn’t want this to be one of those intense, fast sessions, if he can help it. Today he needs to take his time, listen to his body with devotion, so that later, whenever that is, he’s floating, free of worry, able to enjoy just being around Dean. The temptation to go and find him is strong but Sam doesn’t run anywhere, sets out his selections on the bed and drops his boxer briefs, cock hard and swinging out to smack to nearly hit his thigh as he lowers them. He pulls the covers down and slides his feet under them, this being all he needs to keep himself warm.

There are no metal rings in his rotation today. His favorite ball stretcher, his shaft ring, and a vibrating plug, that’s all he’s gotten out of his trunk for himself. His Fleshlight never makes it to the trunk, its use frequent when he’s here, and he takes that from where it stays on his nightstand, the plastic edges of it starting to roughen and lose some of their definition. Dean had bought it for him, somewhere during the Trials, when they had both been too on edge and Sam was feeling his body eat itself -  _ I know I can’t do it for you right now, Sammy, but… I still want you to feel good. Just do it for me Sam, please, try to take care of yourself. _

Sam had, and he did. Still does, in fact. 

He misses Dean a lot right then, and puts the Fleshlight down beside him.

Even though it’s cold everywhere else, the temperature in his room is enough to keep his balls relatively loose, and he tugs at them indulgently while he rolls his stretcher around in his right hand, warming up the smooth rubber before putting it on. He hasn’t come since Birmingham a few days ago, his nuts full and ready to be emptied again. Dean loves to mess with his balls so much when he goes down on him that this is the closest that Sam has come to the real thing when he’s alone, and with a shuddering gasp, he puts the stretcher around his sac, tugging his heavy testicles downwards so that they’re seated and secure.

“Fuckin’ love that.” Sam leans back and pumps his cock, eyes closed as he enjoys the resistant swing of his balls moving with his hand, pulling and plumping him further. He raises his knees, heels dug into the bed, licking his lips as he lets Dean back into his mind. He’s here, on his back, legs spread, with Dean between them, mouthing at his balls -  _ nuts are so fuckin’ swollen, Sammy, been saving this one just for me? -  _ and it’s good, better when Dean dips lower and keeps his fingers around Sam’s balls, tugging them when he starts to lick his hole. 

Sam whimpers, touching himself below his balls, his trepidation about being down there far less than normal today. He grabs a container of oil and uncaps it, peels the safety lid and digs in, scooping up greedy finger fulls and coating his dick with it, making a tight fist around himself and fucking, watching the head of his cock disappear and then return between his curled thumb and forefinger. Precome and oil coat his palm and fingers, a clear, slick mess that Sam licks off with a groan. He puts more on, two fingers going to lube his hole, legs drawn back so far that his hips ache.

It’s not so difficult now, to give himself that opportunity, two fingers inside himself within five minutes. He gets loud, moaning as he fucks himself, cock sliding through his fist without even nominal resistance. He goes for his prostate, swollen with need and delayed gratification, fingers curling up and in. It’s pure, undiluted pleasure, radiating from the low center of his body like a shockwave. He hits it, again and again, fucking his hand, higher,  _ Dean, please right fucking there, don’t stop, God, never stop- _

Sam comes all over himself, pulse after pulse of white, thrashing on the bed and never once stopping his hands, making it last and last. It’s good, beyond good, pleasure coursing through him so fast that it’s hot enough to melt the snow outside. It takes forever to subside, and when he finally collapses he feels strung out, high on the dopamine firing off every few milliseconds. 

He wants more, envious of his own self, and he rolls over, sitting up on the bed. He’s still stroking, cock still hard; he doesn’t do this often, just because it always takes so much energy after - but he needs this today, needs to keep giving himself pleasure. A witch’s brew, one he keeps for special occasions, and something he uses mostly with Dean. It keeps him going, able to load his brother up as much as he wants, fill him over and over with come. As far as Dean is concerned it’s just Sam being really good at edging and yeah, he feels a little bad about it, lying to him that he’s got a little help when it comes to having more than one orgasm but in the end, he doesn’t care. Dean’s happy, he’s happy, and his body is so pleasantly worn out by the end that he sleeps for what feels like days, afterwards.

It’s a powder, and Sam pours some into his now lukewarm coffee, the stuff hissing when it makes contact with the water. Said to come straight from Aphrodite herself so that she could spend more time in complete ecstasy with her lovers, or so the witch’s notes had said. Sam drinks, draining the cup in a few huge gulps. It doesn’t have a distinct feeling of working, save for a near instantaneous recall of his energy and stamina. 

Sam doesn’t wipe himself off, come dripping down his chest and abs as he lies back down on the bed. The bleachy smell hits him hard, ramping his arousal right back up to one hundred, squirming when he feels how loose his hole is now. He pulls his fingers out, picks up his plug and greases it, mouth open and jaw working when he pushes it inside himself. He’s hooked on its girth, substantial and heavy, with a remote connected to its base. He stops when he feels the flared base of it breach his hole, as far inside him as he can make it go. There’s no way he’s stopping now, biting his lip when he thumbs it on, a low, steady vibration that makes his toes curl. It buzzes right against his prostate, dumping more precome from his slit. He pulls his foreskin up, holding it closed while he swirls his index finger around inside; in his mind it’s Dean’s tongue, teasing and tasting him. 

He could do that, let Dean blow him while the plug is in his ass, maybe sit on his cock after he’s milked him for a while, make it even better when he comes inside him. Sam latches onto that vision, stroking his cock and kicking the plug up another notch, finally reaching for his shaft ring and securing it around the base. His glans flares out even wider, girth matching his shaft, his slit pulled wide open. He’s in that total, pleasure-focused headspace now, gooned out on his cock, helpless to resist. He strokes, one right after the other, moaning like he’s in heat.

In his head, Dean’s riding him with four loads leaking out his ass, hole loose and sloppy and begging for more,  _ bred, come-drunk -  _ Sam loves that, adores this bottom-thinking, lust-fucked version of his brother. He is, to an extent in real life. Sam can feel his second climax gathering strength, wanting to pull his balls up close to his body. The stretcher keeps them where they are, pain mixed with glory, swollen with their sudden refill. He’s fucked Dean a few times with it on, getting off on the lewd slap of his bound-up nuts against Dean’s body, letting Dean know what’s coming, what’s going to be inside of him.

He can’t help it any longer, reaching for his Fleshlight and untwisting the cap. It’s an anonymous looking hole, deliberate so that it can be, in the moment, whatever Sam wants it to. He shoves oil inside it, coating the insides with his long fingers. There’s nothing stopping him from just taking it fast and hard - he doesn’t, not yet, teasing the head of his cock with the hole. The plug’s not hurting anymore, full and incredible inside him, making him feel delightfully exposed. It’s a powerful duality of sensation, open on one side, and as he finally pushes his toy down his swollen cock, completely enveloped, and even with its size, he still nearly bumps the end of the Fleshlight, the material unresisting around his thickness. 

Sam gets up on his knees, not at all worried about the plug falling out of him. With the way its going, staying upright is a battle, his knees and thighs shaking. He thrusts forward, holding the Fleshlight in both hands, his hair sticking to his sweaty face. He feels ludicrously powerful, able to take whatever he wants. He fucks his toy, over and over, cock squelching and slipping. He can smell himself, his come, his sweat, the oil slick down the insides of his thighs and all over his dick. His hip piercings, long healed, feel like the outposts of his pleasure, endpoints of some perfect shape between them, his cock, and his prostate. He speeds up, his downstairs brain in full control, grunting and growling. He sees Dean, on his hands and knees, biting the pillow with his ass turned up. 

_ Gonna load you up, Dean, as much as you want.  _

Dean’s perfect, wrecked hole is in his mind’s eye, leaking and gaping, Sam’s come trickling out of him while he’s passed the fuck out, sprawled and sweating. Sam used him, selfishly, and it was good. It’s always good, even imagined, and that’s what sends Sam over, slammed deep into his toy, unloading pump after pump of come. The brew makes it last a solid thirty seconds, completely and utterly emptying him. He goes cross eyed, heart pounding and having to fight for breath.

He hasn’t felt so good in a long, long time.

Sam falls back to the bed, the toy still on him, and he pushes the plug out with muscle alone, no longer able to stand it. He’s overcharged, nerves frayed, so blissed out that he can’t feel any of his extremities. He picks up his phone from his nightstand, needing Dean to see what he did to his toy.

He records the whole process, from him slowly pulling his cock out, still fat with blood, ring keeping it trapped, a huge mess of come dumping out from the hole, dragged out by the head of his dick. He pours it over himself, letting it run down the cut of his abs and hips. 

Once done, he lays himself out, dropping the Fleshlight, staring up at the ceiling and basking, soon laughing, running a sticky finger through his hair. Sam’s exhausted, but it’s so fucking cleansing that he doesn’t care, letting his breath come back to him slowly.

It takes a long time for his cock to finally soften, slipping his ring and stretcher off, sore down there, muscles overworked - but that’s good too. Better than good.

He can only hope that Dean’s bliss, however he’s getting it, is half as good as what he gave himself.

 

___

 

Confessing that he’d wanted to jerk off together, apart, unable to touch - that had been difficult to admit out loud. Thank God for Sam being more courageous than him, and hearing it in that deep, raspy around the edges baritone of his - that had gotten Dean hard awfully damn quick. It’s not even Sam jerking off that’s the major part of it - it’s Sam thinking about  _ him  _ while he’s doing it. Dean. Dean who probably doesn’t deserve to be front and center in his fantasies, given all the shit that he’s put Sam through.

But he is, and Dean feels humbled by that. He let Dean grope him, his own, real life centerfold, standing in the kitchen with his dick out and his hands tweaking Dean’s tits, making his heart miss a few beats and his dick leak. It feels like a puddle, cock nestled in a massive damp patch of precome, sympathetic to when Sam’s dick had started pouring it out, too. He never used to get that much, always had to work for it - but Sam makes it so easy, turning him on beyond just a surface want. This goes down to his bones, snaring and enveloping him to the point of he  _ has  _ to do something about it.

He’s on his way down to the dungeon, sort of. His room, his private space, is off to the side, a hideaway that not even Sam has entered. He has his magazines that he bought in Birmingham under one arm, his tablet in the other. He’s giving himself as many options as he can, lube tucked in the back pocket of his jeans. Every step gets him harder, Sam’s hands still hot on his skin. That kiss had been something else, taking his brain offline, and dammit, why is it that Sam can make him come just from his tongue in his mouth? 

Because Sam is good with his hands, his mouth, everything, purpose designed to make Dean beg for mercy and release. Sam’s a torturer of the sweetest kind, and it just feeds the growing lust in Dean’s loins. He’s getting to the point of being stupid horny, slaved to his own need. Sam gave him way more than a start - two more minutes of nipple torture, and Dean would have creamed himself. 

It’s that fucking good.

Dean gets inside his space, stripping by the door, the trunk’s hinges hanging open where he forgot to close it up the last time. He walks over, keeping his socks on (the floor’s cold down here) and sits down, propping his tablet on the wide, leather arm of the chair. His dick is straight up against his belly, leaving precome behind as he shifts and makes himself comfortable, legs splayed wide. He opens the trunk, the dark musk of his own come hitting him hard enough to make his head swim. It makes him even harder, taking out the shirt he stole from Sam. He puts it to his face and inhales, the very smallest trace of Sam’s scent still in it. He tugs it over his head, stiff with dried come in places, draped over his frame in places that are snug on Sam. 

It’s like being enveloped by his brother, from behind, held in Sam’s lap while Dean focuses on himself. It’s not even that he needs Sam to do anything, except maybe kiss his neck and bite his ear, play with his tits while he strokes. Alright, maybe that’s a little more than nothing, but Dean can do whatever he wants here.

He pulls one of the magazines out he didn’t get to the other night, laying it out at his right side while he pulls up one of his favorite playlists on PornHub. It’s not really even porn, really a glorified slideshow - it’s more about the sound. It’s a myriad of sex noises, some of which sound awfully close to Sam. He’s got a dirty fucking mouth on him once he gets going, and it’s not so hard to supplant the guys on his soundtrack with Sam, a whole room of them, all of them as hung and eager as the last.

Dean turns it up loud enough that it’s not distracting, but enough that he’s aware. He turns to his magazine, turning the pages with his right hand while he jerks off with his left. He found out long ago that either hand does the trick for him, one just as good as the other. He’s wet, precome streaking down his shaft, working it into his skin before he uncaps his lube and adds too much, wiping the excess on his shirt.

The pull in his balls is difficult to ignore, so he flips the page over and stops there, reaching down and tugging them, heavy with his need. He’d been so turned on the morning after in Birmingham that he’d awakened and gone again, sitting on the toilet with a pair of Sam’s briefs (which he wishes Sam would wear more) held to his nose and his magazine on the floor, jerking fast and dirty until he’d shot all over his thigh. Sight and scent, that’s what gets him the most when he’s alone, the dark musk of his brother and airbrushed, perfect tits. 

Sam probably smells incredible right now, up in his room with his fucking horse cock in his hand, probably all bound up in one of his rings. Dean’s never been much for them, but watching Sam put them on, getting his already huge cock even bigger, it’s a sight to get drunk on. He does it sometimes when Dean wants nothing but to give him head, truly test the limits of his jaw to see just how far he can take it. He’s a masochist like that, and thinking about him like that has Dean’s mouth watering. 

He finishes going through his magazine, turns his background sound up a little higher and goes to the next one, throbbing in his hand, losing his battle with keeping it slow and drawn out. He thinks about Sam again, how edged up he must be right now. Thinks about the flush that creeps down his chest and neck when he’s so uncontrollably horny that he’s like an alpha wolf that’s gone into rut, the need to fuck and breed taking over his mind and body.

The way Sam growls when he’s got Dean face down, it’s not so hard to imagine. He knows about those toys you can get, wants to put a fake knot on his brother and  _ make  _ him plug him up, and it’s sick, fucked up, to want that, Dean thinks, to the point where he wouldn’t actually do it - but down here, with the privacy of himself he can think about it. Can think about how huge Sammy’s cock would look, ready to pump him full of come, nuts emptying over and over again inside his body until his come sloshes out of him.

Dean’s toes curl when he catches the sensitive spot under his cock head, rubbing and circling it with his thumb, returning his focus to his porn. This one has a lot of hairy men in it, unsculpted by razors, a perfect fucking forest to blast come in. He loves it when Sam goes without shaving his chest, loves riding him and coming all over his hairy pecs, this picture-perfect spread of it right down the middle. It traps his musk so well, and Dean falls asleep so often with his nose buried in it, inhaling his brother, a scent that always sticks with him.

His cock is thick with blood, so, so engorged and hard, blurting precome with every couple of heartbeats. The sticky-sweet smell of Astroglide fills the room, competing with the come that’s dried on his shirt, amplified by the sweat staining under it under his arms. He likes that he can barely breath down here, the air circulating just enough that he doesn’t have to worry about suffocating. Lightheaded, he flips through the rest of the magazine, his video reaching the climax portion, guy after faceless guy blowing his load, deep, masculine voices rattling around inside Dean’s head. 

_ A room full of Sam. _

_ All of them his. _

_ Precome dripping, waiting their turns with Dean’s mouth and hole, fucking him silly and stupid until he’s forgotten any other purpose than being on his knees. _

_ “Ass up, Dean, not done with you yet.”  _

_ Broad, powerful hands on his hips, keeping him locked in place, filling him up for the dozenth time while his mouth is used, jaw aching from swallowing another load.  _

Dean cries out, whimpering at the touch of his hand. Sam would be so good, would stop if Dean need him to but he wouldn’t ask, couldn’t, wanting to give all of himself to his baby brother and his big cock. Wants to be his own, breathing Fleshlight, ready to go at the drop of a hat, however Sam’s pleasure dictates. He keeps that to himself, too, because it’s just for him, his own time, this impossible, lewd fantasy.

There is one thing, one more thing that he keeps down here, for himself. He doesn’t use it often because he so very much prefers the real thing, but right now, he needs it, bad enough that he stops looking at his skin mag to dig it out of its hiding spot, wrapped in a towel. A near perfect replica of Sam’s cock, something he had done in secret, made by an adult toymaker in Topeka, had sent the guy dimensions and everything.

Every detail is there, every vein, the slight curve to the left right when Sam’s  _ really  _ fucking hard, made of solid silicone. There’s a suction cup on the end, for when Dean wants it standing. Today he doesn’t, unable to stand, and he brings it to his mouth, licking the head, the neutral, material taste a poor substitute for the warm flesh of Sam’s body. For now, it’s good enough, and Dean sucks and slurps, fucking his mouth and throat until tears run down his cheeks.

Down here he can be outrageously needy, letting all of the other shit in his life go. He’s a cock slut, requiring nothing more than Sam’s dick, making his jaw hurt, his body tremble. He fingers his hole, slow at first, but urgency takes over, until he’s fucking himself hard enough to ache, on autopilot until he’s stretched himself enough to take Sam like this. He wishes it was Sam’s fingers doing it for him, better at readying him than Dean can ever do it himself. 

He grabs a condom (which they hardly ever use in real life) and slides it down the thick shaft of the dildo, satisfied that even Magnums have a hard time accommodating Sam’s girth. Total size slut, Dean, and he drips enough Astroglide down its length to cause someone injury, were it stepped in, and he slinks down in the chair, legs pulled back, and he works it into his greedy hole, the stretch and burn of it still too much, even for his relatively thorough prep, picturing Sam above him, fingers around his ankles while he bottoms out.

Dean strokes with his left hand and fucks himself with the right, keeping a hard, steady grip in the dildo, making his body take it, eyes closed and the sound of flesh coming together in his ears. He can lay aside the porn for now, it’s just a crutch in these last few minutes, and God, he has to see Sam, even if it’s just his face.

He stops long enough to get his phone, and fuck, there’s a message from his brother, no words, a video - it’s, God, it’s Sam’s cock pulling out of his Fleshlight, focused entirely on the slick, oily pull of his dick out of it, followed by an inhuman amount of come, it seems, pouring out all over Sam’s body until it’s done, long, sticky strings of perfect, thick white. 

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s coming until the first spurt nails his chin, fucking it out of himself until he’s so sore his spine hurts, his brain hurts, everything burned out, just because he needs it to be, cleansed and sated, watching the video four times until he can’t keep his toy inside himself anymore.

He’s shaking, sobbing, a wreck that he’s got to put back together before he goes back upstairs. He licks the come off his chin, his shirt soaked from chest to navel. Dean came so, so much, wishing Sam was there to feed it to him.

It takes a while, but Dean makes it back up, flushed and sticky, his toy and porn safely locked away once more, body aching and out of energy. He doesn’t know what time it is, and doesn’t care. His abandoned mug of coffee is still next to the pot, and he puts it in the microwave, heating it back up just to give his brain something to re-acclimate on.

The soft tread of socked feet tells him Sam is in the kitchen now, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Dean’s body. “Am I allowed to say thank you, or is that uh, weird.”

Dean kind of wants to cry.

Overloads of pleasure like that always do that to him, having thrown himself so completely into it that he has nothing left.

Instead, Dean laughs, letting himself be held. “Depends on how we’re measuring weirdness, starting with what we do for a living.” It’s nice, Sam just standing there with his arms over his chest. He can still smell the sex on himself, on Sam, and he wonders if Sam was waiting to shower with him.

That would be pretty fucking awesome, if he does.

“Then thank you, Dean.” He nuzzles his neck, the big goof, scenting Dean like he’s been away from him for too long. “You were awesome, nine out of ten.”

“Just nine out of ten? Jeez, Sammy, thought I did a better job than that.” He thinks about the video Sam sent, the evidence clear as day all over his stomach.

“Wanna leave room for improvement - unless you’re afraid you can’t live up to expectations.” A kiss, right at the back of his ear, and yeah, Sam’s working up to asking for more. “Right now it’s not much, but later…”

Yep.

“What’s right now?”

“Shower, lunch,  _ Game of Thrones _ . Found a pretty good rip of the latest season.” He goes back to nuzzling him, and Dean loves it, loves that Sam can’t keep his hands off, that he needs this sort of full-body contact. He doesn’t even care about the television, not really, just wants - needs - to be close to him, spend the rest of the day in his arms. They can do that now, act all couply and dopey, and yeah, screw anyone else, it’s none of their fucking business.

“What’s for lunch?”

Sam huffs a laugh, and lets go of Dean. “Quesadillas. Now go start the shower, I’ll be there in a second.”

Dean spins him for a kiss, and yeah, there’s come still on his tongue, tasting it on Sam too, but it’s the quiet ending, the true end, that he needs, and when Sam joins him under the hot spray of water, body to body, a few minutes later, Dean can’t help but think of the next act, the next moment of blinding ecstasy.

So long as Sam’s a part of it, he’s got no problem with things developing at their own pace.

 

___

 

Their blizzard doesn’t want to cease, it seems.

Four feet of snow piles up on the ground, then six feet, huge, white banks of the stuff that obscure Smith County for as far as the eye can see. Sam has gone up the steps, once, and that had been solely to see just how bad it’s gotten outside. Once he has satisfied his curiosity, he hasn’t gone past the library. The heat is good in there, and maybe it’s just a mental thing, but all of the books make it seem warmer. Being trapped inside, he loses his sense of time, as well. The hours blend together, day and night getting to be where they might as well be the same thing.

He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sam shouldn’t be, but he is.

They’ve had to fight for so long for this, this easy, calm balance and time with each other, and they’ve had to fight  _ hard.  _ It shouldn’t last this long, but it has, and blizzard or not, he doesn’t want to think the weather is why this is happening. He very badly wants to believe that it’s them, deserving a fucking break and suspension of reality. It helps when they already deal in the impossible, so maybe their reality truly is different from the others. It should have been proven enough by now, only Sam doesn’t want to really think all that much about where it even starts.

When they get stuck like this, it normally doesn’t take more than a couple of days before one of them starts getting antsy, stir crazy to the point of snarling at some trivial thing. They’re both guilty of doing it, but this time, it’s different. They can barely stand to be out of each other’s space, it seems. Sam hasn’t slept in his room since they day they came in from the road the last time, sharing the massive, California king that Dean fell in love with at first sight. It’s in a room that’s considered  _ theirs,  _ a shared space that they both silently agreed upon would be for that sole purpose.

It gets slept in enough that they both have their own groove in the mattress, and Sam’s is molded to the right side of his body, Dean’s place in it not so far away. They drift apart in the night, on their own, but when they fall asleep, Dean’s there. Just the contact of skin, comfort in knowing that the other is safe, and then they chase their own dreams. 

Sam and Dean haven’t spent the entire time in bed, no; once they finished  _ Game of Thrones _ , it had been on to Dean’s carefully curated movie collection, starting with  _ Miracle On Ice.  _ Dean’s never watched hockey in his life, Sam went to a couple games in college, but for whatever reason, that movie, no matter how many times they watch it, keeps them transfixed.

It starts there, moving through a whole lot of comedies -  _ good  _ comedies, nothing with the Jackass guys in it - and they laugh, hard enough that Sam has to start keeping tissues to wipe his eyes.  _ Happy Gilmore _ is watched four times, just so that they can laugh at the same jokes over and over again. 

Dean looks soft, happier than he’s been since, well, forever. He’s not shaved in a few days, with scruff clinging to his jaw and cheeks, dark, rusty blonde that’s finally starting to get a little gray in it. Sam has too, not quite as much as Dean, and shit, his brother really is forty, isn’t he? Well, maybe not just yet, but he’s damned close, and he’s more handsome and attractive to Sam than he’s ever been. 

Their time apart, getting in touch with their own bodies, it was good. It’s only happened once, but it feels like a hard reset, whetting Sam’s appetite for his brother anew. It hasn’t happened, not yet; Sam’s still reeling a little from the brew, but it’s there, under the surface, and they’ve been making eyes at each other.

All in its own time, Sam tells himself.

He wants that moment to be perfect, when they both can’t stand it any longer and just have to have each other again. Sam has the patience for it, he swears he does.

The credits are rolling on  _ Far and Away -  _ yeah, he was surprised too when that had come up as something that Dean  _ really  _ wanted to watch - when Dean picks his head up from Sam’s chest, having spent so much time sprawled out over him while they’ve been binging movies that he’s pretty sure there’s a permanent, Dean-shaped mark there now, brushing his fingers along Sam’s scruff-covered cheek. “Gonna grab a beer, Grizzly Adams.”

Sam chuckles, stretching his arms above his head. “Just as well - starting to feel a little stiff.” He needs to get up and move around, or he’s going to start getting bed sores, it feels like. Well, couch sores. Yeah, Dean had bought a couch for their man cave, and it’s seen more use in the last few days than it ever has before. 

Dean gets up, his t-shirt rucked up and the legs of his sweatpants crooked. He puts it all back in place, his bulge tempting as he shifts the waistband of his underwear around, picking up his robe up off the arm of the couch and slipping it on before heading to the kitchen. Sam waits for a second before he follows, thankful more now than ever for the thick wool socks he’d picked up last winter. 

Nice as the bunker is, the floors do stay cold and Dean complains enough about his toes being like little ice picks. To which, without fail, Sam always tells him  _ well, you’ll just have to warm them up for me. _

Yeah, it’s easy, it’s domestic, and Sam’s kind of high on it, just having constant, free access to his brother. Even if they’re in the same space and room, sometimes it’s hard to reach other. But now? Those barriers are down, they’re on the same fucking page, and Sam is going to be sad when it inevitably turns.

Dean’s heating up some cheese to go with the last of their nachos, sucking it off of his fingers where it had spilled a bit when Sam comes up behind him, scritching his fingers over the back of Dean’s neck. Dean groans, shoulders falling, hands bracing on the counter in front of the microwave.

“If this is a ploy, it’s working.” Dean tries to put snark in it, really he does, but Sam knows better than to buy it. Dean pretends he doesn’t deserve this kind of touch, simple, direct affection - but he does, and Sam’s going to be unstinting in giving it to him.

“No ploy,” Sam promises. “Unless you want there to be one.”

Dean mumbles something like  _ I’ll give you one, alright  _ but doesn’t drift away, doesn’t shrug Sam off or even move to get his cheese out of the microwave when it dings. Sam shouldn’t be getting turned on at the sound of Dean’s enjoyment, groaning and pliant, fingers scraping up and down the back of his neck and up through his hair. He can’t help it, so he doesn’t stop, and Dean doesn’t ask him to.

Sam finishes with a kiss to the back of his head and goes to snag a beer for himself, knowing damn well that Dean can see where he’s started to chub up in his track pants. No bother in hiding it, and Sam just lifts his eyebrows as he takes a sip of Soledad, heading back to their cave like there’s nothing going on.

He’s sprawled back out, waiting for Dean to make himself comfortable on or around him again, however he wants. Dean has a bag of chips that’s already been opened, cheese and beer in the other. Dean stops for a second, looking at Sam, so comfortably arranged and held in invitation.

“You can close your legs.” Dean sits down, but he doesn’t really takes his eyes off of Sam. “I have nachos.”

Sam sits up too, stealing a great big scoop right as Dean’s about to dip his own in the bowl. “And I have no intention of ruining your time with them.” He crunches the chip, perfect salt and hell, there’s a little bit of red pepper in this queso, the kind that Sam likes a little bit more than Dean does.

“Good, cause I wasn’t gonna stop.” Dean eats, Sam bumps him with his shoulder, and they get through half of  _ Dragonheart  _ before Dean is back on his chest, awake but not focused on the movie, or so Sam can feel. They aren’t lying quite perfectly on top of each other, so his cock is pressed against Dean’s lower stomach and Dean’s is against his thigh and shit, Dean’s hard, getting there anyway, and Sam thinks that maybe now is that time. Hell, he  _ wants  _ it to be that time.

“Don’t suppose you’re gonna want to finish this later, do you?” Sam doesn’t so much as move - well, not much. He scritches Dean’s neck again, tracing irregular circles and figure eights on the back of his head, feeling Dean go even more pliant and receptive, were it possible. He shifts his leg, giving Dean a little friction, just enough that to let him know he’s interested, if Dean wants it. Dean grunts, inhales and then lets it out slow, moving so that he’s kind of propped up on his elbow and looking down at Sam.

“Why?”

“Seems like you’ve got something on your mind.” Sam doesn’t stop rubbing the back of his neck, thumb dipping through the little divot at the connection of his spine and skull. “If you don’t, then forget I said anything.”

“Mm.” Dean doesn’t settle back down, fingertips right at the collar of Sam’s shirt. “Well, maybe there was something.”

“Gonna share with the class?”

Dean doesn’t answer for a moment, eyes looking over every aspect of Sam’s face, a close, appreciative examination that makes the blood rise to his cheeks. They’ll get there, he knows they will, but Dean is taking his time, and honestly, that’s fine, Sam  _ wants  _ to go slow. It’s not a rushed job, not if it doesn’t have to be. 

Their eye contact doesn’t break as Dean’s left hand travels down Sam’s body and slides past the waistband of his pants, fingers creeping through his pubes until Dean finds the thick, semi-soft hang of his cock, squeezing with intention. Sam nods, so brief that it’s almost not there. It’s a matter of follow through to bring Dean’s mouth to his own, lips parted before they touch.

Dean tastes like salt and beer, and it should be kind of gross but Sam doesn’t care,  _ it’s Dean,  _ all he cares about is the wet of his tongue finding his own and Dean never, ever letting go of his cock, fattening quickly in his fingers where he’s brought him out of his pants. The angle is weird, their really too big to do anything on this couch but cuddle, but that’s not enough to stop them, the kiss growing deeper and longer. Precome is already beading up at his slit and Dean gathers it up on his middle and index fingers, slipping them between their mouths so they taste at the same time.

Sam finds Dean’s hips and hauls him up into his lap, shifting so they’re properly facing each other, cock trapped against his stomach and Dean’s body. Dean puts his hands in his hair, using it as an anchor while he plunders Sam’s mouth with his tongue, hands gone from his hips and sliding his t-shirt up. Sam finds Dean’s nipples already hard, presenting towards him in invitation, playing those perfect little metal cylinders through them like a virtuoso. The warm-up is slow, irregularly paced,  _ intense,  _ and soon, Dean is panting into Sam’s mouth and murmuring  _ move, Sammy, we gotta… just  _ move.

They leave the movie playing, and it’s a long journey to their room, the one with the big bed, stopping every few seconds to one another up against a wall and kiss, touch, feel out and map the long-familiar planes of each other’s bodies once more. Sam spends as long as he can stand it just outside, leaning against the doorjamb with Dean pinned to it, rutting against clothing that refuses to yield.

Dean breaks free and pulls Sam along with him, shirt stripped off the moment he’s in the room, body curving towards Sam’s reach. Sam does the same, pulls Dean’s sweats and underwear down with his right hand, removing his with his left, not even a second after Dean is on the bed, completely naked, all of it for him. 

Sam is ducking down between his legs, eager to lick his brother open when Dean pulls at his hair and shakes his head, making them switch and God, Dean’s going down on him, fast and deep, moaning around a stretched jaw full of his cock.

“Needed it, didn’t you Dean?” Sam cards his fingers through the soft, gray-flecked blonde of Dean’s head, looking down to see his nose touch his pubes. Sam hasn’t trimmed them in weeks now, so thick now that they trap his scent and hold it. This is as much for Dean as it is for him, the irresistible,  _ tangible _ pull towards one another no longer able to be ignored. Dean hums a yes, pulling at Sam’s hips until he’s standing and Dean’s mouth is perfectly level with his swollen cock.

A glance up from Dean,  _ please, Sammy, use me,  _ pupils blown wide and forest green. Sam cups his jaw, watches the spit leak out of the corners of Dean’s mouth. Sam knows he can handle this, but he starts slow anyway, just so that Dean can gets that much more out of the experience. He knows Dean loves his size, every aspect of it, begs for it with the way he rides him, blows him, can’t stop reaching for his cock when he’s in one of those moods. Sam doesn’t feel like he deserves that kind of attention, at all, especially not from Dean.

In moments like this, Sam believes that maybe he does, even if it’s for just a few precious minutes.

Sam gives Dean what he needs for as long as he can stand it, fucking his mouth until Dean’s lips are swollen red, tears streaming down his face. He scoops him up out of the floor, replacing his cock with his tongue, bringing Dean down to the bed with him, pinning and securing his body under his weight. Dean submits quickly, willingly, moaning over and over again as Sam teases his nipples, his hole, touching the piercing between his balls and hole, working his hardest to give Dean everything. He wants inside him, wants to feel that irreplaceable, nerve endings lit up connection with him. Sam knows what it is that does that, it’s their souls trying to touch, or so he wants to believe. Neither of them have ever really denied heaven’s claim of being soulmates. They don’t talk about it, because how can you?  _ Hey, Dean remember that time we found out we were kind of destined for each other?  _ No, it’s not spoken of, but it’s understood, as sure as the earth’s rotation around the sun and that Dean’s first move every day is to reach for Sam.

Sam can taste himself on Dean’s tongue, diving deeper, until he finally has to pull away and take his breath, mouthing at his jaw and neck, listening to his brother whisper  _ want you, Sammy, want you inside.  _

“Yeah, Dean, just...yes.” Sam nips at his throat, slides his fingers down to Dean’s hole, rubbing in slow circles as he’s passed lube that came from under the pillow, more than likely. Dean gasps, just the tip of Sam’s finger pressed in as he’s slicked up, clinging to Sam’s shoulders and going for another kiss. They’re locked into it now, and Sam does slow, thorough work, not stopping until Dean is writing, begging, four fingers crooked inside and probably, maybe, Sam could put five in, everything but his thumb holding Dean open, and fuck, fuck fuck  _ fuck  _ they’re getting there.

Dean stops him right as he’s about to position himself and slide home, pleading for Sam to hold on.

“Something I want to try, Sammy, just… wait.” 

Dean kisses him, hard, and he gets out from under him, wincing when he realizes how much he’s gaping. Sam’s heart swoops when Dean bends over to pull his sweats up, flashing wet, pink flesh, and then he’s gone. Sam gets up, thinks about following, and then runs to his room, his stretcher and plug sitting right in the top of his unlocked trunk he grabs them, puts the stretcher on, balls heavy as they bump against his leg walking back to their room. He’s so, so hard, leaking freely, shaking as he kneels on the bed and spreads himself, fingering his ass quick and dirty to put his plug in. 

When Dean comes back, he sees Sam lying back as he’s making sure the plug is in all the way. 

“Sammy, what…”

“Later - is that… fuck, Dean is that  _ my cock?” _

Dean licks his lips, stripping off before he’s climbed back up on the bed, settling himself over Sam’s waist and rubbing his cock against his lube-dripping hole. “Just… get lonely, sometimes.” Dean pushes back, Sam entering him with unsettlingly little resistance. “Used it the other day, fucked myself stupid with it. Can’t quit doing it, either, can’t… stop loving how fucking  _ big  _ you are.”

Sam bucks his hips, all the way in, hauling Dean down for a kiss. “Love giving you what you need, Dean.” He fucks up into his ass, flicking the plug on, the hard, steady vibration stealing his breath away. Dean groans with him, seated back on his cock, grinding slow and dirty. He takes the dildo, teases it against the top of his hole, right against Sam’s shaft, daring Sam to open him up more and add to the stretch. 

They stay like that, rocking into each other, Sam doing the work of loosening Dean’s ass up even more solely by fucking him, locked in a deep, frenzied kiss, bruising each other’s lips until even Sam’s are swollen. He’s gone, far down the rabbit hole, lust and desire replacing every other sensation and feeling. Dean’s there, making real the fantasies that have been running through his mind lately. 

“Thought about this, Sammy, there being more than one of you.” Dean stops riding him, lubing up the dildo, making Sam hang onto his every word. “What it would be like, to be so fucking full of you that nothin’ else mattered.” He pushes the head of the dildo against his hole and fuck,  _ fuck  _ there’s no resistance, loosened and so, so fucking  _ wet.  _ “Just there to be used, bred, filled up by you over and over again, however much you wanted to.”

Sam whines, hands going right to Dean’s chest and squeezing his nipples. “Tell me, Dean.”

A long beat as Dean pushes the dildo in, head dropping practically to his chest and a sob of pain-laced pleasure escapes him, teeth gritted as he stuffs himself overfull. “God, Sam, I… why the hell do you think I can’t keep my hands off of you?” Dean opens his eyes, shiny with tears because it fucking hurts, but it’s the sort of hurt Dean loves, needing that bite to ground him. “Have never been able to, fuck.” He moves, shifting both Sam and his toy inside him, and Sam’s grip turns iron on Dean’s hips, knowing that they can’t stand this for long.

Sam never gives him his answer, another kiss, another burning shot of pleasure rocketing through his system as he kicks up the plug, milking his prostate as he fucks Dean, nearly slipping out because he’s on the verge of ruining himself and yet, refusing to stop, crying  _ Sammy  _ over and over again. 

_ Got you, Dean, always. _

He’s close, and Dean is too, riding and letting himself be fucked, holding on to Sam so he doesn’t fly away. They breathe as one, flying higher and higher until Sam can’t hold back anymore, biting Dean’s mouth and screaming, pumping himself dry until he feels Dean shoot off between them, covering his chest and stomach in hot, white passion, sweeping each other clean until they’re left with nothing but tears, tears of pleasure so sharp and clear that they don’t ever seem like they will stop.

Sam gathers Dean close, needing that one last kiss, just has to make sure that Dean is still with him. A tiny, brief nod, and they pull themselves apart, Dean not daring to look back as he pulls both Sam and his toy out of his ass - but Sam looks, makes sure there’s nothing that shouldn’t be there.

He sees come and the slick of used lube, and he touches Dean, back there, just for a second and he’s okay, he’s fine, tough as ever. Sam loves him, so, so hard, and he holds Dean to his chest, sweating and panting as he pushes his plug out of himself, purged and burned from inside out.

“We...we can’t do it like this all the time,” Dean says, his voice an utter wreck. Sam kisses his temple, promising that anything, whatever Dean has for him he’ll take, and take with joy.

“I know.” 

They fall silent, breath unfurling against each other’s skin, and Sam thinks Dean is asleep until he shifts up, settling his lips over Sam’s and running his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, putting them back on the rails.

“Body’s yours, Sammy, and I know I’m not great about telling you but… it is. I am.”

Sam smiles, heart bursting and pounding against his sternum. “Mine too, Dean.”

And for Sam, at least, eternally.


End file.
